Norton, Andre - Anthology (4 page)

 
          
 
"You bet," Steve assured him.
"I'll be in the top bunk tonight."

 
          
 
"Where have you been, young fellow?"
a trooper asked.

 
          
 
Without thinking, Steve blurted, "I've
been with a
Yamadan
in the jungle." But after
one look at Dad's around him, he grinned sheepishly. "I don't know where
I've been. I guess I stumbled around and got lost. I've had some weird
dreams."

 
          
 
Yes, he decided, that's what really happened.
He had talked to
Nobara
and had his head filled with
all those crazy, scary legends. After being knocked out, he had come to while
Adele had gone for help. Then he had wandered off and gotten lost, imagining
himself turning into a
Yamadan
.

 
          
 
No one had a better explanation, so by the
time the troopers had gone, and the family had settled down, Steve was
convinced that the whole incredible incident was the result of his being
knocked out in the fall.

 
          
 
That night he lay in his upper bunk, listening
to Irwin's quiet breathing. Adele had told him that in his absence she had
slept in the room, hoping to calm Irwin enough so he would sleep. But it hadn't
worked—he had cried all night. Now, with Irwin at peace, Steve was content. In
moments he fell into the first sound sleep he'd had in days.

 
          
 
The next morning Steve overslept. When he woke
up, he realized Irwin was gone. Dressing quickly, he went to the kitchen and
made himself breakfast. No one was around so he went out to the barn.

 
          
 
"Where is everybody?" he asked Mom.
"Your dad and Adele are out harvesting corn. Emmy's driving the cows to
pasture," she replied, gathering the eggs.

 
          
 
"Where's Irwin?"

 
          
 
"I haven't seen him. I thought he was
still asleep."

 
          
 
Steve opened his mouth,
then
snapped it shut. No sense in alarming Mom. Maybe Irwin was in Adele's room.

 
          
 
He raced back toward the house,
then
came to an abrupt halt. Footprints—big ones—in the
dusty yard! All the horror of his days in the dark forest rushed in on him, and
involuntarily he tore open his shirt. His chest wasn't hairy! And his hands
were normal. But he couldn't control the shivers that ran over him. It was the
Yamadan
! One really did exist! But why was it here?
Fearfully he glanced over his shoulder, but there was no big hairy creature
there. In a state of panic he dashed beyond the barn and looked out across the
pasture. There was Irwin riding the horses with Emmy, driving the cows before
them.

 
          
 
He grinned in relief. Boy, he was letting this
Yamadan
thing get to him. A few big footprints and he
had almost gone bananas. Irwin must have gotten up after Mom left the kitchen,
then joined Emmy when he saw her going out to the pasture. Their laughter
drifted back to him.

 
          
 
Steve started out to the cornfield to help Dad
and Adele, but they were at the far end. He saw
Nobara
sitting on the front step of his cabin, and on an impulse, Steve hurried over.

 
          
 
"Tell me more about the
Yamadan
," he said, feeling foolish, yet wanting to
hear the story.

 
          
 
Nobara
looked frightened.
"No, I dare not. I'm forbidden to speak of it."

 
          
 
"You said it had horns. Were they like
antlers?" Steve persisted.

 
          
 
"No—like goats."

 
          
 
"And a head like a melon?"

 
          
 
Nobara
gasped.
"You have seen it?" "And it stinks like garbage?"

 
          
 
The old man seemed about to faint.
"Yes—like garbage." His bony fingers clutched Steve's arm. "You
saw the
Yamadan
?" Then he shook his head and
closed his eyes without releasing Steve. "No—only one man has ever seen it
and returned." "I saw it."

 
          
 
The ancient eyes snapped open. "You saw
the
Yamadan
," he repeated in disbelief.

           
 
"At first I became covered with hair,
then
my hands became claws." Steve went on, "I
began eating leaves—"

 
          
 
"Yes, yes, the same as my uncle."
The old man stiffened. "If he let you go, who will be the new
Yamadan
?"

 
          
 
"He said he'd find someone else."
Steve wondered at the old man's obvious fright. "When your uncle returned,
who took his place as the new
Yamadan
?"

 
          
 
There was a long silence, and suddenly Steve
realized that the expression in the old man's eyes was not just sadness. There
was a sort of horror.

 
          
 
From the depths of
Nobara's
frail body came the whisper of a voice.
"My father.
The day my uncle returned, my father saw footprints and the eyes of fire. He
told me. I never saw him again."

 
          
 
Steve felt his legs turn to rubber. Dad! Would
Dad be turned into a horrible hairy monster? Dad, who didn't believe in such
things?

 
          
 
Steve went racing to the cornfield where he
saw Adele. She was alone. "Where's Dad?" he croaked in fear.

 
          
 
"Heading over to the
pasture.
He's worried about Irwin."

 
          
 
"Irwin? Why?"

 
          
 
"Just before Dad and I started over here,
Irwin came out of the house and told Dad he had seen funny eyes last night.
Dad's
afraid
Irwin is coming down with a fever or
something."

 
          
 
Steve felt as cold as marble. Before he could
organize his tangled, horrified thoughts, he heard Emmy's scream cutting across
the farm.

 
          
 
"Irwin's hurt. His horse threw him-—in
the woods! He's out—cold!"

 
          
 
"No!" Steve cried out in agony.
"No,
Yamadan
, not Irwin! Not Irwin!"

 
          
 
With glassy eyes he watched Dad race to the
woods. It was too late.

            
Monsters were
something you believed in or you didn't. Keith
Volmer
was a believer. He was a monster buff. Some guys collect bugs or stamps, but
Keith collected monsters. And he didn't settle for just any monster like
Frankenstein or
Wolfman
. Keith devoted himself to the
basilisk—the horrendous monster of the
Middle
Ages.

            
Once Keith began to
specialize on the basilisk, he soon learned to know and value the works of
Professor
Zembeck
, world authority on the subject.
And as he
xeroxed
illustrations or diagrams from the
Zembeck
tomes, the professor took on heroic proportions in
Keith's mind. So when he read that Professor
Zembeck
had actually rented
Abbot
Castle
as a retreat to house his books, ancient
manuscripts, and artifacts, Keith was determined to meet him.

            
Riding his bicycle up
to the castle gate, Keith stared at the stone tower, brooding and silent in the
afternoon shadows. Though he knew his plan was way out, he was

determined
to go through with it.

 
          
 
The wrought-iron gate sagged open. Keith
chained his bike to a rusted iron scroll and walked resolutely to the massive
oak door. In T-shirt and jeans, he looked like any boy out to find an
after-school job.

 
          
 
He pounded the bronze knocker, shaped like the
head of a hideous gargoyle. The hollow sound was enough to summon the dead. He
pounded again and again until, at last, a small window in the door opened. Two
eyes drilled through him.

 
          
 
"What do you want?"

 
          
 
"Do you need any help, sir?"

 
          
 
"Go away, boy." The tiny window
snapped shut.

 
          
 
Suddenly it opened again. "How old are
you?"

            
"Twelve,
last July."

            
The huge oak door swung back.
"Come in! I'm Professor
Zembeck
."

 
          
 
In the great mirror across the hall, Keith saw
the professor look him over. "You're a well set-up boy," he said.
"I can use you."

 
          
 
Keith felt the magnetic power of the man.
Although not much taller than Keith, he seemed to bend over him. His domed
forehead and long stringy hair added height to his slender body, and his voice
boomed with authority. "Tell me, boy, what is a basilisk?"

            
"It's a monster, half rooster
and half snake."

    
        
"Very good," the professor
murmured. "Basilisks are little known today. How are you so
knowledgeable?"

 
          
 
"I collect monsters. Pictures that is. I
am a
Zembeck
fan. I have
xeroxes
of every monster picture of yours I can find. Maybe you'll autograph one for
me."

 
          
 
The professor looked pleased. "Well,
well, I think I can even do better than that. But we have work to do. Let's get
on with it."

 
          
 
Keith followed Professor
Zembeck
across the flagstone 42 floor to the tower arch. The tower smelled musty and
damp.

           
 
It wasn't as old as it seemed. Fifty years ago
the ancient stone farmhouse had been remodeled into a castle by a family who
wanted one. Now it was hard to rent. People didn't live like that anymore.

 
          
 
"I have some fragile material to unpack.
Are you a careful handler? What is your name, boy?"

 
          
 
"Keith
Volmer
."

 
          
 
"Keith will do well enough.
A good Scottish name.
My godfather's name was Keith."

 
          
 
The professor seemed to run out of breath as
they climbed the spiral stone stairway. Keith was full of questions, but he
thought it best to keep cool and listen. At the top of the stairs, Professor
Zembeck
pushed through the red velour draperies.

 
          
 
"Come in, boy." Keith wondered if
the professor had already forgotten his name. "Come in, come in," the
professor repeated, and Keith followed him into the tower room. Boxes were
everywhere. An ornately carved chest stood in the center of the room. A long
worktable was pushed against the wall.
Beside it stood a
refrigerator.
It was then, looking beyond all this, that Keith saw the
cage— large and strong enough for a gorilla.

 
          
 
Professor
Zembeck's
eyes seemed to give Keith a careful appraisal. Picking up a carton from the
floor and handing it to Keith he said, "Open it."

 
          
 
Keith put it on the table gingerly. "Is
it a basilisk?"

 
          
 
"It's a Jenny
Haniver
—-a
fake basilisk," explained the professor. "During the sixteenth
century there was a ready market for basilisks. Malefactors created monsters
out of skate and ray fish. By adding a few feathers and a snake, these
creatures could be made to look like basilisks—or what folks thought basilisks
looked like. Open it up and take a look."

 
          
 
Keith carefully peeled off the gummed tape and
43 opened the carton. In a sealed specimen case, under glass,
lay
the most loathsome creature he had ever seen.

 
          
 
"Yuk ... I'm glad it's a fake."

 
          
 
"You will note," the professor said,
"that the face of the ray has a vaguely human appearance. By pulling and
snipping—and adding feathers, a length of snake, and a rooster's head—we come
up with a pretty good basilisk."

 
          
 
"So that's a Jenny
Haniver
,"
Keith said.

 
          
 
"I have the most extensive collection in
the world. In these boxes are bits and pieces of creatures to be put together.
Most are not mounted. You will find it fascinating work."

 
          
 
Somehow, Keith's plan was not working out. He
had come to see a monster, not to cut and paste a collection of fakes. His
glance rested on the steel cage.

 
          
 
"What's that for, sir?"

 
          
 
"Ach, I almost forgot. That is for the
chest. Give me a hand. We will push it into the cage."

 
          
 
The chest was a masterwork of intricate
carving. As Keith's hand gripped the oak surface, the carved snake squirmed
under his palm. The thing was alive. The chest became a writhing mass of
serpentine horror, but the professor didn't seem to notice. They pushed the
chest up to the cage.

 
          
 
"Now we lift," the professor said.
As they set the chest down in the center of the cage, Keith saw a carved
rooster's head on the top of the lid. The beak was open, but completely sealed
with wax. There was a brass inscription beneath it.

 
          
 
Keith asked the professor what it said.

 
          
 
"Read it. Ach, I forgot boys are not
taught Latin nowadays. What a pity. But it's just as well. We have
work
to do."

 
          
 
"But Professor
Zembeck
,
I have to know."

 
          
 
"Why?"

            
"The wood snake on the chest
came alive in my hand."

           
 
The professor's eyes radiated excitement.
"Ah, this is most interesting. Then you indeed are the one to know. Any
boy can handle the unpacking, but you have sensitivity— you are the one I have
been looking for. It is your destiny to be here."

 
          
 
Keith became more and more uneasy. Standing in
a cage with this strange little man was almost frightening. "Professor,
how could anyone know what a basilisk looks like? If you see one you're dead.
Even a basilisk can't look at himself in a mirror, or he's dead."

 
          
 
"Bright boy.
My reasoning exactly.
That's why I collect Jenny
Hanivers
. My search led me to this—"

 
          
 
"The chest?"

 
          
 
"It's not really a chest. It is the
carved coffin of the only basilisk in existence."

 
          
 
"Wow!" Keith said. "Is it
alive?"

 
          
 
"No, but that's why I hired you. You will
help make it come alive."

 
          
 
Wondering how this could be, Keith followed
the little man to his workbench. The professor seemed to be searching for something.

 
          
 
"How did you find the chest, Professor
Zembeck
?"

 
          
 
"My studies led me to a manuscript
written by a scholar in the sixteenth century. In it was an account of the
carved coffin and its basilisk. It took me years to trace it down."

 
          
 
"But who could capture a basilisk without
looking at it?"

 
          
 
"A blind man," said the professor.
"A blind wood-carver carved the coffin. Then, with the help of a wizard,
he enticed the basilisk into it."

 
          
 
In the lower cabinet the professor found what
he was looking for. He pulled out a pair of dark glasses.

 
          
 
"A real wizard?" asked Keith.

 
          
 
"All scientists were called wizards in
those days, especially if they worked in the dark arts. This unknown wizard
wrote the inscription on the coffin."

 
          
 
"You said you would tell me what it
says," Keith reminded him.

 
          
 
The professor polished the dark glasses.
"Very well.
Translated from the Latin it reads: 'From
the cock's mouth remove the wax. Then pour in twelve ounces of cock's blood,
mixed with one ounce of youth's blood. The youth must be twelve years and his
blood freely given.' "

 
          
 
Keith felt his heart pumping like crazy.
"What happens then?"

 
          
 
"The monster will break out of his wooden
cocoon and we will cage a basilisk."

 
          
 
"Yeah, but we'll be dead." The
professor waved the dark glasses. "Not so. These lenses have magic
qualities. Made in ancient
China
of ink crystals, they ward off the evil
eye."

 
          
 
"Even of a monster?"

 
          
 
"What eye is more evil than a
basilisk's?" Keith bit his lower lip and looked straight at the professor.
Even though he knew the answer, he had to ask the next question. "Ah . . .
where are you going to get that blood?"